Grace Slick would be less than proud to see how far you’ve fallen. A broken heart does not warrant broken bones, and the guilt grows like a rainbow rose on St. Valentines Day.
Another shovel, shoulders sore. Damn it…stop thinking about your self.
The sound of the dirt burying her milky eyed gaze only riles your blood even more.
Your palms are sweaty. They slip, the worn wood of the shovel’s handle depositing a sliver deep into your life line. Blood pools, welling up in the cusp of your palm, hot, burning. Reality comes crashing down.
Run now. Love sucks.